Wednesday, March 25, 2009

"KIIRA!!!!!" shrieked my roommate Meghan this morning at around 7:30AM. Startled and about to step in the shower, I wrapped myself back up in my towel as Meghan continued to shout."What happened?!" I asked, groggily.I couldn't understand most of the words coming out of her mouth as she rambled, Blackberry in hand, but I was able to pick-up "Anthos Upstairs" and "15 dollar gyro."What my dear Meghan, bless her heart, was trying to alert me of was the upstairs dining area of Anthos has become a drastically less expensive eatery called Anthos Upstairs. Clever and oh so welcomed. And the menu? Well it looks perfectly divine. I'll take one of everything, thank you.After Meghan had eagerly delivered her news, I couldn't help but say, "Wow, I thought something bad had happened. You were like freaking out."Meghan simply replied, "You should be freakin' out too!! 15 dollar gyros!!"So go on, freak out. For the gyros, for Michael Psilakis, or...just for Meghan.

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who i am

When faced with the question of what food means to me, conversation inevitably shifts to my Mor-Mor (Swedish for Grandmother): A phenomenal cook who refused help in the kitchen and didn't believe in recipes. The real deal, if you will.

Mor-Mor had a seriously strong hand with garlic (surprisingly for a Swede) and an innate knack for making anything taste implausibly delicious. There was always a jar of homemade garlic oil in her fridge which found its way drizzled on top of almost everything. Like one of her breakfast treats: homemade bread slathered with garlic oil, a few slices of granny smith apple, and topped with extra sharp cheddar. Into her beloved toaster oven they'd go until the cheese had just melted, lovingly, over the apples. The salty-sweet combination could make your head spin—a beautiful cohesion of flavors and textures from such an unexpected pairing.

And then there were her meatballs. With her homemade tomato sauce made from tomatoes grown in her garden, picked when perfectly plump and warm from the summer sun, a ladle of garlic oil, and tons of parsley (Mor-Mor may or may not have been secretly Italian), they sent eyeballs rolling to the backs of people’s heads. The thought alone of her in that kitchen makes my heart long, once again, for her cooking. For her.

Now when I'm cooking, I finally understand her insistence on navigating the kitchen alone. There's something about getting in there and winding down and having your own personal space to create that’s beyond therapeutic—it’s wholly fulfilling and soul-satisfying.